Paranoia
by titanicavatar
Summary: With Moriarty back on his toes, Sherlock reaches out to Molly Hooper for help. But Molly cannot afford to see him anymore, for she has begun to receive terrible phone calls from a stranger who could tear their world apart.
1. Chapter 1

PROLOGUE

* * *

It is one odd morning for Sherlock Holmes. He sits at one corner of the laboratory testing the samples. "Hmm, salicylaldehyde, maybe," he thinks. The smell does help a bit to identify. His sharp eyes delve into the microscope. This case of the deranged butler is going to be a failure, he can sense it.

Only if he could've got some help.

An inexplicable guilty lump arises in his throat at the thought. It just _doesn't_ go, however hard he tries to push through. He is hungry. He can do with some fish and chips right now. Oh. Every random thought is followed up by another, reverting his mind to what happened one year ago – the memory he had tried to shove into some deep dark corner of his mind, quite unsuccessfully. For once in his life, he feels _sick_ of deduction.

"How's it going?" he hears a fluttering female voice beside. The voice that once used to be a wee bit nervous and awkward around him. Not so much lately. It was Molly Hooper. Molly.

She walks up to him. She can be really clumsy at times, thinks Sherlock, as he tries to cover up a chuckle just escaped with some showy coughing. "Fine," he murmurs, never bothering to look up from the microscope but with no sarcasm whatsoever.

She is staring expectantly at him, waiting for him to, maybe, comment some more over the work. He is frustrated with this particular compound; he is stuck with this for one long wasteful hour and now feels the dire need to tell her that its way too complex for him to get through with, but then she'll make a you-are-a-graduate-chemist-why-can't-you-work-it-out face. He chuckles again. As if that whole line will shatter his reputation for a lifetime. It's her turn to speak. Was she even nearby? The glossy tiles cannot catch her reflection. Something rumbles inside his stomach. Something is wrong with him. This socially inept, high-functioning sociopath is hungry. And _distracted_.

But then, conversation is never their area.

"Everyday isn't quite my day," he speaks in a wayward tone; marks it as a decent conversation starter. It was true, though. He wasn't going through a very good spell. She doesn't reply. It makes him all the more awkward. He is unnerved, unmoving, and unable to concentrate. He wonders. Why can't she see through him this time? Why can't she figure out how immeasurably sad he is? Or why can't she simply tell him off for so blatantly ignoring her?

His left hand twitches a bit. Paranoia. His jaw stiffens. There have been regular hallucinations. It's the effect of the drugs. Sherlock frantically hopes she didn't notice. He cannot afford to stand that blazing expression on her face again. Wide, doleful eyes piercing through him. The anger and the air of betrayal that his deed would've induced over again.

"You know, you can ask for my help anytime," she says finally. Though she sounds a bit lost. And foreign. There is a sense of déjà vu surrounding her words.

"Molly," his free hand clasps some of the untested samples lying higgledy-piggledy by the microscope, "Can you just take them to –"

He looks up as he says. And stops midway.

It is a trick. A magic trick. The cheap, dirty magic trick his mind has played on him again. She isn't there. She cannot be. Not anymore. He has just been blabbing to himself all this time. Sherlock feels as if his insides are corroded with acid. With one deep long sigh, he tries to pull himself back into the work again. It doesn't help much. The chemicals throw in a neon reflection on the glossy tiles as and when the fluorescent light hits them. Everything inside that _wretched_ lab reminds him of the same.

Molly Hooper. Molly.

* * *

"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

It was twenty-five years ago. It had rained so hard that day. Water drops splattered around and ricocheted off the window panes of the red bricked country house they lived in. He sat at one extreme corner of the sofa, huddled up, his gaze unwavering and intent upon the porcelain vase on the centre table in front of him, as he tried to decipher the logic behind the caricature etched upon it. His thoughts were muddled.

Mycroft sat at the other extremity, bulging his eyes and throwing Sherlock exasperated glances. He sat as if repelled by the magnet that Sherlock was, testifying their not-so-warm relationship. Perhaps he was wondering whether what he just said would be quoted down in history. Bored and tired of the pitter-patter outside, he rolled his eyes to the ceiling and turned to his brother, "Get a grip, Sherlock."

"I never lost a grip."

"Why do mummy and daddy keep saying he ran away? I hope you know he died…"

"I do."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. They were talking about Redbeard – a medium sized, brown terrier that used to sleep beneath his bed. Which looked up at him with happy, playful, and lately tired but unaccusing eyes. Which sometimes curled at his feet lovingly (Sherlock didn't quite understand the word; maybe it was just the normal behavioral characteristics of a regular-sized pet dog with an odd affinity towards the youngest member of the family). Sherlock loved to – liked to stroke his head.

"I told you not to get involved," Mycroft commented in his usual know-it-all, big brother tone.

"I'm not moved," said the ten-year-old Sherlock, his eyes still fixed on the vase.

"Oh Sherlock, you've always been such a stupid little boy," sighed Mycroft; not yet a tinge of concern has surfaced on his face. "Caring is _not_ an advantage. It never is."

* * *

John saunters into 221B in the afternoon. He walks up the stairs with his typical, thumping, heavy steps. He reaches the doorway and pants for breath. Sherlock remains in his chair, unmoving as ever, his fingers tangled together and chin resting upon them, deep in thought. He shoots a short glance at John, and then slumps back to staring at the ceiling. John's brow twitches; he is slightly aghast for some reason.

John looks pretty exhausted, observes Sherlock. He has a bouquet of petunias and wild flowers in one hand, he has shaved just before coming, he just had tea alone in some local café, and his somewhat ruffled military cut hair indicates he was involved in a brawl in the way, most probably with a pickpocket.

"You're still in your housecoat." John says it as some sort of a semi-question and semi-remark.

"As you can see."

"So you bloody get dressed up. We need to reach there before it gets dark, and if we –"

"Where?"

John is stunned. He opens his mouth to speak but it seems Sherlock's words were such base treachery that they've rendered him momentarily speechless. He takes a deep breath, clears his throat and speaks in a low dark voice, "Don't act as if you don't know."

Sherlock doesn't respond.

"I'm not getting this, Sherlock. Doesn't she mean _anything _to you?"

An invisible rusty knife buries deep into Sherlock's chest. He spares another glance at john, his face completely devoid of emotion. John raises his eyebrows, "So?"

Sherlock doesn't know. He is befuddled, but he never lets it show. He feels the sentiment – an angry monster – roaring outside, waiting for admission. But he can't let it in, as it would ruin and ravage the bleak, cold, indestructible world of logic he has built inside his mind. He travels further into his mind's eye – towards that particular black-stoned grave in the old cemetery in southern London… the monster in his chest purrs. But he just can't let it in. He is daunted. Maybe even scared.

"I – I can't."

"Why?"

"You heard me."

"I'm asking why."

"I'm not obliged to reply."

"Sherlock, what the –" John falls short again of apt words, or more appropriately, apt swear words. He raises his eyebrows and flails his arms with the urgency of a maniac, in disbelief, maybe even disgust. "How could you not care, she _died_ for you! But oh wait who am I talking to," he dramatically lowers his voice again; "you're a bloody psychopath! Why would you bloody care?!"

The next thing Sherlock hears is John's hurried thumping steps down the creaky wooden staircase, followed by a loud slam of the door. He rises from his couch and concernedly peeks out of the window. John is trudging disappointedly down the pavement, hailing cabs. The bouquet of wild flowers has almost fallen apart. He must've repelled John, he thinks. He has outdone himself this time.

Sentiment hits him like a blow in the gut, sucks the air out of him. The sky is sunny. Just a dash of grey towards the north. Unlikely to rain anytime soon. Sherlock watches the dust dancing in the light which has pushed its way through the glass pane. He has never observed before the melancholic stillness of the place – so beautiful and yet so tragic – always a self portrayal of the lonely miserable man living at 221B. He sighs quietly. Adjusts the skull over the mantelpiece and slumps back on the couch, devoid of any enthusiasm.

It has been a year since she left. But John was wrong at one aspect; Sherlock never said he didn't care.

"_All lives are lost. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. It never is."_

* * *

**Hey guys this is apparently my first stab at Sherlock fanfiction ,and obviously Sherlolly. In the next chapter, I 'm gonna delve into what happened one year ago. I hope you enjoy. Please leave a review, Sherlockians and Sherlolly worshippers!**


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER ONE

* * *

MAY, 2014. ONE YEAR AGO

* * *

London is an interesting city. A cesspool of criminal activities, underground mafias, terrorist attacks along with splashes and streaks of heartbreaks and trade deceptions, Sherlock gets it all. Some fascinating, some dull, and others utterly idiotic. He has been traversing through the incredibly irritating 'dull' period for a few weeks now; this recent slew of secretary affairs that even the Scotland Yard can see through, have been so _boring_ that they may just force his wall to take a pounding from his British Army L9A1 again.

He jumps up and down the couch out of inane frustration. Even John remains busy with his to-be-daddy duties these days. "No one comes, no one goes, oh, what woes," he murmurs to himself, rhythmically tapping his fingers on its arm as if listening to a song.

"So you've begun to write poetry," quips Mrs. Hudson as she struts in through the mess, and makes some space on the table to place his morning tea.

"No, I was saying my thoughts aloud and they just _happened_ to rhyme."

Mrs. Hudson leaves with a giggle, even as he begins banging his head against the sofa. Such proportions of boredom are murderous to health. Forget God, even Mrs. Hudson can try and outwit him these days. Sherlock pulls at his hair and grits his teeth. And soon as he hysterically begins bouncing on the couch again, Lestrade calls.

Finally, it's Christmas.

He boards a taxi and picks up a slightly befuddled, taken-aback John Watson in the middle of his shaving process, on the way. John wonders what happened to his oath of not leaving his flat before anything less than a seven while he wipes the thick lather on a towel. Sherlock feigns deafness for a while and then recites a nursery rhyme about early rising in his defence. John puts on an expression that happened to be a lovechild of amusement and exasperation for the rest of the journey.

The murder is neat and cold-blooded. Two bodies lay spread-eagled in the backyard of an old ancestral mansion in Cardiff, their throats slit. No sign of struggle, and apparently, no hints of robbery. Local residents they were, as is obvious. A new spell of rain has washed away the foot prints of the killer. Facial resemblance indicates the corpses are closely related, probably mother and son.

"Where's the doctor?" Sherlock asks out loud, fiddling with his phone.

"Doctor?" repeats John.

"Of course, doctor. Who might be a family enemy."

"Well, I thought we're looking for a child psychopath," Lestrade speaks in between, but lowers his voice to an inaudible volume the moment Sherlock raises a sceptic eyebrow.

"Why?" Sherlock asks a rhetorical question, the corners of his lips turning up into a sly, knowing grin, "Because of the shoe?"

He points at a single shoe that lay half sunk in the mud, a few meters beside the body of the dead young man. And even though it appears something of a clue, Lestrade knows better than to open his mouth again. John looks on confusedly.

"Look at the bodies," Sherlock begins, his voice trembling with new found excitement, "Do you really think these intricately cut throats are the works of a child psychopath?"

"I'm still not getting the doctor theory," says John.

"Oh c'mon, this is absolutely transparent," insists Sherlock, "The woman – posh, branded clothes – belongs to a high profile society. But she doesn't splurge, which means she's the earner. Moreover, the lack of a ring –"

"Estranged?" suggests John.

Sherlock returns him an appreciative grin, "You're getting rather good, Dr. Watson. Yes, estranged single mother. The boy – her son – is in late twenties, an indoor worker, possibly a banker. He is stressed, rarely gets a day off, you can tell by the dark circles. And since he didn't get one to go on a jungle safari with his mother, so most probably both of them had an appointment with a doctor, preferably a surgeon, who had a murder in his mind, and who anaesthetized them and skilfully slit their throats, and thus disposed their bodies here. The woman's gold chain – still there, so it's either personal revenge or a vehement show-off."

"And the shoe?"

"Irrelevant. Just to mislead. Apparently, the murderer took too much trouble to smear – sorry, cake the shoe with mud. Slightly oversized. For a kid with large feet. Remember Carl Powers, John?"

"Sure I do," John nods, even as Sherlock hops a couple of steps forth to pick the shoe up.

"Though I would like to have a check," he mutters, "Some why it rings a distant bell."

* * *

Sherlock and John spend the rest of their day at Bart's. While John has a walk or two around the hospital, seemingly bored, occasionally engaging in a chat with Mike Stamford – a plump doctor with a pinkish face and rather pleasant disposition – as and when he bumps into him; Sherlock passes his time sauntering through the morgue and putting the shoe samples on test which seem to take an age to show the results.

"Why exactly are we doing this?" asks John as he leans against a slab, his arms folded and his question bordering less on curiosity and more on irritation.

"Doing what?"

"_This_," John accursedly points at the shoe, "You said it is irrelevant. Then why the hell are we writing a research paper on it?"

Sherlock listens half-heartedly, sometimes with a slight nod, as John keeps badgering him with his 'shoe' complaints, at times even on the verge of cursing it, and adding tantalizing testaments to his opinion that they have indeed been wasting their time here. However, after fifteen minutes of pulling little to no attention from Sherlock, John gives up with a long sigh and sways into an entirely different territory, gushing about his daddy wishes and woes.

"But Mary won't let me see her," he continues with his monologue, lost in his own thoughts and not bothering to know whether Sherlock is listening, "She says sentiment will get the better of me."

"Well, she's not entirely wrong, is she," comes the first response from Sherlock Holmes, as he leans forth with a transfixed stare at the computer screen. It gives a resonating _beep_. The search is complete. And for some reason John cannot decipher, Sherlock is stunned at it, before he resumes muttering.

"I knew this."

"You knew _what_?"

"The shoe, _the shoe_, John! I knew it rang a bell," he holds it up with utmost curiosity, "The outside is deliberately caked with the clayey mud of the backyard, but the inside is the same. A limited edition shoe from Sussex with London mud overlaying it," he says while his index finger travels along the rough edges of that supposed piece of garbage, "I've been so blind, I've been saying it all this time! It doesn't resemble Carl Powers' shoe, John, it _is_ Carl Powers' shoe!"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know."

It is a lie. Sherlock knows a bit too well what this might mean. His mind storms past the incidents of the late, halting on a dead stop over the most infamous that occurred two months back – when every screen in England simultaneously flashed with the same message. A splitting image of _that_ man – in a corporate attire, with slicked back hair and a wicked, almost murderous glint in his eyes as he shoved the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger – floats in front of Sherlock's eyes even as his temple produces a sickly throb.

"Hey there, how's the progress?"

The voice momentarily drives out Moriarty from Sherlock's mind. He looks up to find Molly Hooper strutting towards him in her typical, slightly-clumsy gait. She greets him with a hearty smile. Sherlock notices she has plaited her hair to one side. Mrs. Hudson's morning tea performs an immediate back flip inside his stomach and he desperately glances away for some different information to process.

"Oh hey, Molly" grins John, "Are you through with the post mortem reports of the woman and her son?"

"Yeah, that's what I'm here for. Mrs. Gilliam was diagnosed with kidney failure, though her son is in perfect health."

"Mother possibly belongs to a rare blood group, so son goes to the hospital to donate one of his kidneys for her transplant, the surgeon anaesthetizes and kills them both," Sherlock rants to himself, "The question is, why."

"And here they are, found in the backyard of an ancient mansion with Carl Powers' shoe," adds John, "The question is _definitely_ why."

"Also, er – Inspector Lestrade has asked me to inform you that the hospital says that those two persons never reported that day," says Molly.

"Lying? Bought off?" asks John.

"Maybe not," Sherlock speaks in a low dark voice, "Maybe it's _him_."

"Him?" the expression on John's face transitions from confusion to shock to horror to disbelief in a matter of seconds, "You aren't saying it's Moriarty, are you?"

Sherlock doesn't miss the unmistakable chill that runs through Molly's spine at the mention of the name and deliberately makes her looks down at the files in her arms. He knows the reason why, and has felt a nagging need to talk it out with her ever since the broadcast of the_ Moriarty _message.

"But it can't be!" John persists, "I mean, he can't return. Whatever happened two months ago was just a publicity stunt by somebody else. You were convinced it was, Sherlock!"

"As it turns out, I was wrong," he answers nonchalantly.

"Okay, then, I guess I should go now," Molly smiles a slightly disheartened smile, already on her way out.

"Molly, er –"

"Yes?"

Sherlock feels himself grow hot under his raised collar. It is as if he's standing in the middle of an empty stage, the spotlight burning through his skin. He senses her eyes on him, awaiting a reply maybe. Oh crap, he never meant to say it aloud, he thinks; it was all but a Freudian slip of tongue.

"Sherlock?"

"Huh? Oh, oh yeah – um, er – coffee?"

"Yeah, sure, I'll bring you a cuppa."

She leaves. He sighs, colour rising up his face. The great British detective just made himself look like the greatest idiot in the history of Britain. He wanted to talk about Moriarty. _Another_ Freudian slip of tongue. And to think of it all, Moriarty might hang himself off a ceiling if he ever comes to know that Sherlock has replaced him in a conversation with something as insignificant as _coffee_.

Beside him, John is snorting. He feels the ardent desire to try and hide himself behind his raised collar. He grits his teeth. Another snigger from John and he promises himself he will swear off trying to make conversations ever again.

"Stop laughing," he snaps at John, who gets all the more uncontrollable, "nothing funny whatsoever happened."

"Yeah, I know," laughs John, "As you say, I'm the expert on women, so I guess I know a bit too much, right?"

"Then try and stop laughing," Sherlock tries to make it sound like an order but ends it up as a plea, "_For_ _God's sake_."

"Coffee?!"

"What were you saying about Mary?" Sherlock marks his first desperate attempt to change the subject, "You sent her away from town. Why – you were convinced as well it wasn't Moriarty."

"Yeah, I sent her to her sister's. Wait, how did you know –"

"She has a sister?"

"In Birmingham, yes. Not an assassin though – hey, how dare you change the topic! We were talking about coffee!" John smirks in mock protest.

"Enough now, John. What the hell is so _funny_ about coffee?"

"To be honest, Sherlock, for a genius you _can_ be remarkably thick," says John, "Nothing much really. It's just that Sherlock Holmes has finally begun to realize the perks of being a _human_."

* * *

It is evening. The sun is almost down and the sky is a mélange of fiery shades with a streak of purple around the corner. Sherlock thinks the scene of old London buildings from Bart's is truly insignificant and ethereal at the same time, as he descends the staircase to the morgue at the left end of the hall. John has already had a laugh of his lifetime and has left for his apartment. However, Sherlock still has one job unfinished.

He stands behind the door and peeks through the gap at the hinge. Molly is inside, checking the fresh in dead bodies and scribbling something in her notepad. Sherlock has almost reached out to knock when she looks up and makes a sudden turn.

"Oh, hey, Sherlock. Come in."

Sherlock's first impulse at her unannounced turn was to _freeze_, followed by a leap in his heartbeat so abrupt that it might have even killed him. He makes a quick-fire deduction of the room within the next three seconds so as to save himself from committing anything monumentally idiotic again.

"Oh – oh, Sherlock, I'm so sorry," she says, slightly sheepish, "I completely forgot about your coffee."

"Yeah, oh that – don't bother. I've come – I wanted to talk to you."

"Okay..."

"About Moriarty."

"What about Moriarty?"

Sherlock thinks for a little while. Two months back, when he first saw the distorted voice message with Moriarty's face flashing across the screens, his first panicked thought was of Molly. He remembered what he had told her – that Moriarty slipped up big, at the key point – that the one person he thought didn't matter at all, mattered the most. If the message was from Moriarty indeed, Sherlock realized there on that he had unknowingly thrown her in the pit of fire. For Moriarty won't slip up again.

But then he decided against it. Convinced himself otherwise. Deduced it must be a ruse – there was no proof anyway – just an image, a computerised voice and signature Moriarty drama – it must all be a ruse to stir up trouble under Moriarty's notorious name. And regardless, he said it wasn't possible for anybody to fake blowing their own brains out in front of Sherlock and him not noticing it. Others – John, Mary, Lestrade, and Mycroft – seemed to agree.

And now, as it turns out, he was _wrong_.

Molly knows that. And she knows that Moriarty knows. She is queasy whenever Moriarty is mentioned, and perhaps a bit scared at the very thought of him. And thus stands Sherlock now, trying to utter one simple line of assurance since ages – whatever happens, he will protect her to the ends of the earth.

"Sherlock? Are you there?" Molly claps before his eyes, "You seem a bit lost."

"I'm – I'm fine."

"You were talking about Moriarty."

"Yes – no, not here. Can we just," he blinks around while searching for words, "I mean, outside – there's a fancy Chinese restaurant two blocks down –"

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry again," she says, her brows screwed together with some genuine concern, "Greg just called me over, and I was just about to dash."

"Greg?"

"Greg –Greg Lestrade?"

"Oh – okay. It's fine. It's absolutely fine. Well, you can only wish his wife doesn't see you," he adds the last sentence with a half-hearted chuckle.

Molly doesn't happen to find it very amusing. "He and his wife got divorced a week back," she speaks in a matter-of-fact tone, "John was there too. I thought you knew."

"Maybe – he told me, I think, I guess I wasn't paying close attention."

"Greg was pretty upset about it, so I couldn't refuse when he asked me out. I happened to stay over last day, it was nothing special, really... we watched a boring DVD... we are just friends – for now, at least – though it seems to be going somewhere – oh, sorry, I must be boring you right away..."

Lestrade has asked her out. She'll be off to his house in a moment and Sherlock is standing in her path right now like a big road blockade. For some reason, her perfectly ordinary, regular-sized sentence feels like a kidney-punch to him. _It's just gratitude_, he tells himself determinedly, _immense gratitude that I need to express through deed and I'm not getting a chance to. That's it, nothing else._

"You can say it to me now," Molly continues, "Nobody's here anyway."

"No, it isn't that important. I'll be off – later then."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"You were right, you know. Maybe I never _really_ loved you."

* * *

**Hey, guys, I'm baaack with a new chapter! Please please please review, or I just don't get fueled enough to write ahead! So pleeeeease review...**


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